


A Peek At Your Soul

by BettyBufon



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mind Manipulation, Mindfuck, Past Torture, Psychological Torture, Secret Relationship, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-12 22:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21484177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BettyBufon/pseuds/BettyBufon
Summary: When they get tangled up in a Russian mind-probe experiment, Curt and Owen struggle to keep their secret under wraps.But what else does Owen have to hide? And are the Russians the only ones guilty of brainwashing?
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 13
Kudos: 75





	1. Radio

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals

"If your life was flashing before your eyes, how would you know?" Curt muses, as he fiddles with the volume control on the car radio.

Owen flashes him a look, and takes his hand off the wheel for a moment to swat at him. "Stop that. You're sleep deprived, Curt."

Curt continues like he hasn't heard him. Perhaps he hasn't. "Boring things... They take so long at the time. But when you revisit it, you can flick through it like a photo album. Memories are so fleeting."

Owen sighs, and flicks the radio off. "Photos last longer," he says, unable to resist getting drawn into the conversation. "They preserve more details that the mind omits."

Curt nods as if he understands, but he's so out of it that the words go over his head. "Yeah. Yeah. That's what I mean," he chatters, wide-eyed. "But people can forget memories, so they're more unreliable. What you really need," he says, as he clutches a hand to his temple, "Is a photo album... Of your life."

Owen shakes his head. "But Stalin airbrushed Trotsky out of photos," he says. "Memories can fade, but at least they can't be faked."

Curt mutters something mostly indecipherable, starring the words "torture" and "CIA". Even by Curt's usual pre-mission standards, he's acting kind of jittery.

Owen frowns, then opens the glove box. The torn remnants of a sugar packet litter the space, and he closes it with a slam. "Curt, my dear..." He begins, simply. "Did you, or did you not, eat the experimental sleep-replacement-drug that Barbara was developing?"

Curt covers his chin with a hand, feigning deep thought. "Hmm..."

"Curt."

"Hmm."

"Curt."

Curt nods. "I did not eat the experimental-sleep-replacement drug that Barbara was developing."

Owen sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. "Alright, then," he says. "Where's the drug?"

Curt pulls a sugar packet out of his pocket. "Right here."

Owen blinks. "Then-" he opens the glove box again, eyes now completely off the road. "What was in this thing?"

"Regular sugar," Curt smiles. "I'm just a lil sleepy." He stifles a giggle.

The car grinds to a halt, although the engine keeps running. "Right," Owen says, "Get in the back."

Curt blinks. "What?"

"When we arrive there, that's it. You can't do this on an empty battery."

"I can't sleep in cars," Curt complains. It's the reason he's driven them most of the way here.

"Enough. I'll knock you out if I have to; otherwise the Russians will."

"Fine," Curt grumbles, and climbs into the back. "One last thing..." He leans forwards and kisses Owen clumsily.

Owen smiles through the kiss, and pushes Curt away gently. "Go to sleep," he says, sternly.

"Yes, boss," he gives Owen a mock salute, and curls up. At first, he peeks at Owen through his eyelashes, fully intending to stay awake, but he soon falls still. The only movement comes from the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

Owen drives them onwards through the night.


	2. The Short Straw

Owen groans. "Best of three?"

The short straw- or in this case, toothpick- has backfired mutinously.

"You suggested it," Curt chuckles triumphantly. "Sorry, Carvour, but fair's fair." He kisses Owen's cheek. "You get to be my prisoner," he says, in a sing-song voice.

Owen sighs, and holds his arms out in front of him. "Alright, fine- but next time, I want to be the guard."

"I'll see to it," Curt promises, and handcuffs Owen. Once it's done, Owen turns his cheek.

"Rough me up a bit."

Curt falters. "Oh- come on, Owen, _no."_

Owen sighs. "I shouldn't have to talk you into this. You _said _you wanted to be the guard-"

"Alright, stand still," Curt sighs. after a moment's hesitation, he slaps Owen across the face.

Cheek smarting, Owen scowls. "You call that a punch, love? I thought the CIA taught _enhanced interrogation_."

Curt sighs. "I call that a slap," he says. "It's just- what's that?" He frowns at something on the horizon, and Owen turns.

_Thud_.

He staggers under the force of the punch.

"Very good," he commends, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "Now do it again."

Curt folds his arms. "No."

Owen tuts. "Maybe I should be the guard after all-"

"Aha! So that's what this is about!"

Owen shuffles. "No. I just want it to look convincing," he says, defensively.

Curt stiffens, and rubs his thumb across Owen's cheek, the bags under his eyes. "We'll just say you were waterboarded and deprived of sleep." Owen hasn't slept all night, so the latter is believable.

"At least I have the easiest job," Owen mutters. Privately, he considers that this is for the best. If Herald's information is true, then Owen is the best-suited to resisting mind control. The CIA may have trained Curt to outlast torture, but MI5 have trained Owen to _transcend _it. With a bit of meditation, he can take his mind away, and he's certain it will have no effect on him. Of course, he'll have to put on a show to make it effective, so they don't suspect. He nudges Curt, and looks into his eyes- perhaps the last time he'll get to appreciate them for a while. He smiles. "Don't worry about me too much in there."

Curt puts on a wide smile. "What's there to worry 'bout, doll? Quick in, out mission, three days max- no risk."

Owen smirks at the pet name.

They move towards the meeting point. It's on a hill, just out of sight of the compound. A short Russian man is waiting for them. He raises an eyebrow as they approach, then passes a blindfold to Curt, with a nod to Owen. "If you please."

Owen sighs. "Herald Hermanov, I assume?"

Herald says nothing, and watches stony-faced as Curt blindfolds him. "Excellent," he grunts, and gestures for them to follow. Blindly, Owen stumbles forwards, with only Curt's hand on his back to guide him. He places a steadying hand on his waist, although only up to a certain point- when they come within range of the compound, he lets go.

Within moments it's down the stairs, left, right, right, it could be right again-? He loses track of the paces, and his hands twitch in their restraints. People are chattering all around them in Russian, and Herald introduces them. "This is Vielnetov, KGB. He brings us a prisoner."

He's separated from Curt roughly, and passed around a circle of hands.

"What is he, Vielnetov?" A new voice says.

"British," Curt spits. "We had him in our facility nine days, and he hasn't cracked. We heard you had... More persuasive methods."

The guards jeer, and someone yanks Owen backwards by the hair. His breath catches.

"Oh, don't you worry, Mr Vielnetov. You'll get your information." There's a strange inflection in the guards voice, and he rips the blindfold off Owen. He blinks, and cringes away from the light, and the guards laugh. He thinks he can distinguish Curt's feet from the group, and he addresses the dark shoes.

"I don't negotiate with Russians," he spits.

The man removes his handcuffs in one swift motion, and twists his arms behind his back. Owen winces, and he leans forwards to whisper in his ear. "I don't negotiate with _scum_."

He throws him forwards into a cell. Owen manages to right himself, and hears the taunts and whispers of the Russians as they walk away. Curt shouts something at him to blend in, and they all cheer appreciatively, making their way down the corridor in a rowdy pack.

Only one guard remains outside his cell, a large, burly man who stares Owen down & gives him a dirty smile. Owen holds his gaze, which he seems to take as an invitation.

"You won't be _negotiating_ for your secrets, Mr Spy."

Owen says nothing, and averts his eyes. Sits down on the floor of his cell, starts meditating. He hasn't gone deep enough to muffle the guards next words, though.

"We can take what we like."

He frowns, and tries to block the guard out. Still, some semblance of his words slip through.

_The machine is... Truly special._


	3. Fabian

Curt stands in the lab, and begins to regret his decision. Sure, as he looks at the machine- this huge, hulking chunk of whatever-it-is, he's grateful he won't be the one who gets hooked up to it. Still, his stomach clenches at the thought of putting Owen inside it... Or, at least, _adjacent_ to it. How does this thing work?

He frowns, and tilts his head to get a proper look at it. Two great chains hang down from the ceiling, and end in shackles. Surely it can't be-?

"Admiring my invention?" A voice says behind him.

Curt whirls round. "Yes, professor Papavitch," he says in Russian. "Does it work?"

"Please, call me Milni." He gives him a thin smile. His hair is grey at the roots, but he appears to have applied dark brown hair dye, which is striking against his pale skin.

"Milni," Curt obliges, and forces a smile in return.

Milni steps closer, and appraises the machine. "It works," he nods, with a strange smile. "Although, perhaps, you may prefer a demonstration?"

Curt freezes. This is exactly what we came for. He forces himself to focus, buries his concern for Owen deep down, and gives Milni a crooked smile. "I am- eager- to get answers."

Milni laughs. "Fetch your prisoner in an hour. We will make use of him."

Curt nods, and tries to ignore the lurch of his stomach.

*

Legs, legs, only legs; the image refuses to pan up.

"Show me what you see."

Legs.

"This will only get more difficult for you the more you resist."

A pair of American sneakers. Belong to- belong to-

The screen goes into static.

Owen makes a small moaning sound. It's the first time his veneer has cracked, the feigned disinterest slipping away from him moment by moment.

He has been in the machine for five minutes.

Circular probes are attached to either side of his temple, which Owen struggled out of at first. It was only Milni's promise that he could- and would- drill them into his skull which made him stand down. Now, Owen shudders so much that it looks like he might shake them off again.

Behind a viewing screen, Curt clenches a fist behind his back, and says nothing.

"Ah!"

There's a zap, as Owen throws his head backwards, and exhales shakily. Whatever response this was supposed to elicit, the viewscreen stays blank.

Milni raises his eyebrows, and a scowl flits across his face. "Let's start easy," he says, with a dangerous calm. "Tell me your name."

Owen closes his eyes, lips moving wordlessly, too fast to be his name. Curt stiffens, as he realises it's a prayer.

... full of grace, the lord is with thee...

"It is only courtesy. I feel so impolite not knowing, Mr...?"

... Mary, full of grace- Owen opens his eyes, and they snap to his interrogator. "Screw.... You..." He pants.

Milni tuts. "Very well. Let's try again."

Hail Mary, full of-

He throws one of the levers in front of him.

"- GRACE!" Owen throws his head back, and strains against the chains on his wrists. He's not quite kneeling, not quite dangling, caught somewhere between the two. His chest rises and falls; in, out, in, out, rapidly.

Milni whets his lips, and watches him struggle. Slowly, he releases the lever, and folds his arms together. "Grace? Your name is Grace?"

Owen takes a deep, ragged breath. "Fabian Grace," he says, his accent clipped.

A cold smile. "I don't believe you."

"AHHHH-" Owen thrashes, and pants. Abruptly, the screaming falls away, as he clenches his jaw, tight.

Every line of his muscle is drawn, taut, pulled tight.

Curt reaches out, and places a hand against the glass. In this moment, he is grateful that it's a one-way mirror, but wishes he could offer Owen some comfort. Instead, he can only wait for it to pass. Watch, listen, and wait.

The only other person in the room is Herald, who watches the procedure with a cold indifference. He's seen this before, Curt thinks.

The intercom amplifies the sounds of Owen's heavy breathing, and Milni gives him a hard stare. "Now. Are you going to tell me your name?"

Owen's arm twitches. "Fabian. Grace."

Milni tuts. "We both know you're not called Grace."

"Fabian Saunders," Owen gasps.

"And Fabian!" Milni wrinkles his nose. "What mother would name her child that?"

Owen remains silent, although Curt knows he has a great-uncle named Fabian Carvour. Doubtless where he got the inspiration from.

"She couldn't have loved you very much," Milni comments. Again, Owen says nothing, taking advantage of the stillness to catch his breath.

There's a strange glint in Milni's eyes. "Now, concentrate, my dear Englishman. You don't have to tell me anything. Just show me."

Owen breathes steadily, eyebrows drawn, lips contorted into a silent wail. A grainy image flickers onscreen in black and white. A woman, in an apron, looking down at him, teaching him how to cut an onion.

"... That's right, Fabian-"

The sound is unconvincing, the lips out of sync, like a bad film dub. Milni presses a button lazily. Owen shrieks, and jerks to the left, as the true memory is pulled out of him.

"... That's right, Owen," she says, hands on his, "Be careful with the knife."

"Yes, mother."

"No," Owen struggles, but Milni shushes him.

"Owen. Owen what?"

"Shove it up your-"

\- Running through a playground, school in front of him, breathing heavily.

"Carvour! Carvour!"

Owen keeps running.

"You're it!"

"Pansy!"

"Come back and play the game!"

"Good riddance; I don't want him to touch me, filthy pouf-"

Owen gasps, and grips the chains tighter. His eyes, at first unseeing, search the room, and settle on Milni. "There's nothing for you there."

There's a pause, and Milni smiles. "By all means, give me something more relevant, and we'll peruse it at your leisure. Your first mission, perhaps?"

Owen closes his eyes, his lips drawing into a thin line.

"You're trying to meditate again," Milni sneers. "It won't work."

"Ugh-!" There's a zap.

Two voices, gasping, shaky laughter, hands trembling.

"Is that OK?" The other whispers, through the dark.

"Yes."

It doesn't take long for Curt to work out the contents of this memory- this is Owen's first time. He looks away, but the voices continue.

"Don't be scared."

"It- hurts-"

"Shhh."

"Oh..."

Kissing noises. Curt fixes his eyes on the ground, yet imagines the boy kissing Owen's neck, dominating him. He fights the tide of feelings this inspires, and tries to block the thoughts, but the sound won't stop.

"So good for me."

The smallest noise.

"Oh..."

A kiss. "Relax for me, Owen."

"Charlie-!" he chokes.

"Shh. Relax."

"Oh my god..."

"Owen..."

"You're so deep-"

"Owen...!"

"...f... Fuck..."

"OWEN-"

Ecstatic moans-

"- Stop," Owen hisses, but with less force than last time. Curt looks up sharply.

His cheeks are flushed.

Milni's hand twitches on the lever. "Unless you comply, I'll continue to humiliate you," he drawls.

Owen manages a thin smile. "What makes you think I'm humiliated?"

Milni abandons the controls, and twists closer to him. "That was a boy's voice, not a woman's," he says. "I heard what that boy called you." He reaches out, and places his hand under Owen's chin. "You're warm."

Owen grunts, and tries to turn his head away, but Milni holds him, fast.

"Your pupils are dilated."

Barely more than a murmur.

Owen tenses. "So are yours."

A bark of hesitant laughter. Fingers caress the underside of his chin. "It's dark in here, Mr Carvour."

"Yes, I know. Why do you think I showed you that memory?"

Milni stills.

Sex as a weapon. Curt has seen it before, but it makes it no less difficult. He exhales, and tries to steady himself as he watches the two silhouettes.

Milni tuts, and runs his fingers along Owen's jawline. "My my my... You are a broken creature, aren't you?"

Owen stirs. "No more than you."

Milni stares at him for a long time before withdrawing. "You're stalling."

Owen says nothing, his shoulders tensed, and studies Milni as he hurries back over to the machine.

"What did you hope to achieve?"

Owen closes his eyes, and a small smile plays at his lips. "It doesn't matter. You won't dare touch me."

A pause. Can Owen feel Milni's eyes on him? Can he feel Curt's?

Owen, Owen, I'm here. He braces himself, uselessly, against the glass. To the right, Herald gives him a strange look, and he withdraws the hand. Face burning, he tries to make his face a mask.

Milni speaks almost to himself. "I would give you to the guards. They have no mercy."

Owen opens his eyes. "Is that an admission that your machine doesn't work as well as you'd like?"

Milni smiles. "It works fine. There are plenty of reasons torture is unreliable. Mind-reading is the missing element. You might think me cruel, but there are far, far worse methods of interrogation."

Owen exhales. "It's still torture."

Milni cocks his head, and gives him a look that's almost sympathy.

"Yes," he says, as he pulls the lever. "It is."


	4. Looking At A Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen's resistance begins to fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning) this chapter is pretty much just mindrape. CW: reference to canon-typical violence.

Curt finds Herald in the lab, and confronts him.

"What the hell was that?" He asks, in a stage whisper. "You could have got Owen killed." A tremor rocks his hands, and he folds his arms to hide them.

Herald doesn't look up from the concoction he's making.

"I don't think so, Mr Mega. It is rare for patients to die from this procedure, and Carvour is strong, no?"

Curt breathes heavily. "Bastard," he says. "How many _patients _have you experimented on?"

Herald raises an eyebrow, and stirs the glass with a metal rod. "Why are you so angry?"

"- You said the Russians had mind-control and mind-reading technology. Not _this_-"

The breath is knocked from him as he's slammed against the wall, and he struggles.

"This is both, _Vielnetov__,_" Herald breathes, and glances towards the door. "Not messy. Not painless. It gives the Russians an-" he releases Curt, and gestures for the right word- "Upper hand." As he speaks, he raises his palms upwards. "You observe, you understand this, you take this back to the Americans, and we all become a little bit richer."

"I don't get paid on commission," he snaps.

"Perhaps not. But you don't get paid if you die."

Curt tenses. "And Owen?"

Herald raises an eyebrow, and looks him up and down lazily. "Ah," he smiles knowingly, and places a hand on his shoulder. "I see the problem now."

Curt's breath hitches, and he doesn't dare speak a word.

"Next time, I make it easy on you. I specify to your agency I only want agents who are interested in women, no?"

Curt shrugs his hand away, and composes himself. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Herald laughs. "No?"

They stare at each other. At this moment, Herald is Curt's only ally in this place, but he's just about ready to slap him. Herald seems to sense this, and chuckles.

"I'm not the enemy here. Better run, Mr Mega. Run, before Owen reveals more than he should."

*

  
Owen shudders. They seem to be in a different room to last time. A different machine, perhaps, or maybe it's just because this one has a chair. More straps.

There's a window to the right. A clear window, not a one-way mirror. Behind it is a crowd of people- a crowd he doesn't dare look at, for Curt is certainly among them, and he cannot afford to look at the others, all gathered to make this more painful.

_'Unless you comply, I'll continue to humiliate __you.'_

Milni does not make empty threats.

Again, he resists the urge to scan the room, dreading what he might find. _Dreads finding Curt there, dreads finding him absent. Fears glimpsing his face, triggering memories of him. Hopes that he has the sense to hide himself out of the way-_

He has to stop thinking about Curt.

He's quickly running out of innocuous memories, and they'll soon begin to catalogue his time at MI5. His missions. How long until he lets something slip? They'll recognise Curt's face, and then what?

He breathes deeply, and stares at the floor. _Remember your training. Remember meditation. Make your mind go blank._

In the crowd, a pair of brown shoes.

_Stop thinking about Curt._

The machine whirrs above him, and he can't block out the sound. A jolt of panic goes through him.

_Make your mind go __away-_

  
There's a spark, and a tightening of every strap and clamp, and suddenly, in unison, it starts again, like last time, but worse. The physical strain is gone, but the more he resists- it builds up pressure in his head, like a charge brewing before a storm.

His breathing quickens, and he pushes back against the machine, trying desperately to erase his thoughts, to direct them away, to start rampant and lewd imaginings, anything to keep Curt safe. _Find something smutty. _There's a catalogue of sexual experiences in here, enough to make Milni blush. All he has to do is push hard enough. _Honey trap. Think of a honey trap._

_ An early mission. Nothing sensitive. As safe a memory as you can get. Seducing a Russian spy, or letting himself be seduced by her. The perfect blonde hair. The hilarious struggle for information, the mental push and pull. The _physicial _push and pull__. The curve of her __breast-_

But the curve of her breast is not enough to hold Owen's attention; it never was. Milni is saying something, but this goes so far beyond saying something now; it's-

_Owen is fucking an American spy. A very particular American spy. This memory is from behind, but God help him if he lets them see his face. The dark hair, his perfect __neck-_

The memory changes, yet doesn't change.

_\- the "V' of his torso_

"No-" he chokes.

_Can't show them that. Can't show them him. Can't expose him._

_ Can't show him _ _this-_

But it's too late, and the machine has locked onto the thought- _demands _it. Like a flame meeting gas, it engulfs him, and he's choking, choking back the hazy memory of Curt Mega. He screams, and drags something out of the depths, something equally valuable, something Milni will want, but it hurts. Oh God, it hurts.

_"Officially, the death penalty is extinct in England." She hands him a weapon, he refuses it. A gun. She smirks. She knows what the problem is, and offers him a __knife-_

Owen gasps. "No-"

He tries to change the memory. He tries to toss it away. _He's seven, he's baking a cake with his grandma, he's beating the eggs-_

A zap. He throws his head back, as his body jolts.

_\- beating in someone's head, a savage animal-_

"AGHHHHH-"

_The boy can be no older than seventeen._

The sound of distant screaming.

_"What was his crime?"_

_ "Does it matter?" She gives him a strange smile. Perhaps it's meant to be encouraging._

Owen strains against the machine, determined to break free, or die trying. His breath comes in jagged gasps, and he moans, knowing this will end, if he only gives in-

_ "You did well," the woman says. He's gasping, kneeling, not really looking at the body, because he can't. He was sloppy, and the evidence is all over him. Red, red, red._

Owen howls, and kicks his legs against the machine.

_ "You'll get better at this," she says, as she kisses his forehead. "You'll learn not to make a mess."_

The machine screams shrilly, like it's drilling into his skull. Maybe it is. Maybe this is death.

_"Stop whimpering. Go and get cleaned up, __Agent_ _Carvour__-__"_

"NO," he squirms.

_"- get cleaned up, Agent __Carvour__."_

He breathes shallowly. His head will surely split from the pain.

_ Lip trembling, he rises from the pool of blood. He looks up into the face, at once familiar and alien. She gives him a cold smile, and-_ _ and-_

_ "Yes, mother."_

Owen fights to get out of the restraints, but it's no use.

_Initiation is in the Cheltenham headquarters, first day of March. The agency is ready to welcome him with open arms, but __first-__ first he __must-_

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD," he thrashes-

_He sobs over the body, and he didn't even know them._

_ "They were a criminal. They deserved it. Do you really think prison time would be enough? Without capital punishment, how can we _ _deter-_ _?"_

\- someone's behind him, tethering his legs even tighter to the floor. He must have wrenched them free, but when he tries to kick again, they're unresponsive. He turns his head to bite them-

_'The trauma of your first kill is dangerous to live out in the field. Trust me. This was for the __best.'__ and Owen thinks he understands. She was only trying to help. He was only following orders. The shock of this will numb with __time-_

He howls, and throws his head back. That was a secret he intended to take to his grave, and now...

_ "You're a hero. Plus, this is a great way to work your way up. If you don't like being cooped up here, you can always ask for field work."_

_"_ _I_ _t's not being cooped up here that I worry about."_

_"No?"_

  
He knows he shouldn't, but he breathes through the pain, and glances at the crowd through the observation window. He scans torsos and hands, not faces. Nothing that will trigger a memory of him. But, as he studies the hands of the people who are watching him, he sees a familiar pair of hands. Hands are hard to disguise.

Clenched into fists. Trembling.

He pants, and tries to block the rest of the memory, but it spools out of him. He heard once that, before The Ancient Egyptians embalmed their dead, they pulled their brains out through their nose. That's what this is, on a living subject. Then they pull out their organs, pickle them, preserve them. The Russians will preserve these memories, and-

The breath is ripped from him.

  
_They raise a toast. A toast to him._

_ "To the Angel of death."_

_ "Owen _ _Carvour_ _!"_

_ "The deadliest man alive."_

_ "My son."_

"I need him alive."

_"The deadliest man alive-"_

"I need him alive!"

The whirlpool comes to a standstill, and he's left soaking, half dead, his tongue wrapped around itself and totally, totally fried.

  
Whoever said it was best to be at the eye of the storm?

Owen breathes unsteadily, and his arms shake. He can't focus on much, but he registers one thing, as hands begin to unhook him.

Somewhere in the crowd, for the first time, his partner is looking at a monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I go to edit this fic, I glance at the title, and I hear a soft piano introduction, followed by yelling in my head: "what's in your SOUL?"
> 
> Temp note for the remainder of 2019:  
Sorry everyone, can't guarantee any updates over Christmas, so have a fantastic holiday & I'll see you in 2020!


	5. Reprieve

"... I can't tempt you?"

Curt keeps his face carefully blank, and resists clenching his jaw. Eyes fixed at a point on the wall behind Milni as the man pours himself a drink.

"No," he replies in Russian, with the slightest shake of his head. "Analysis is always done better with a clear mind."

Milni gives him a half smile. "And interrogation, quite the opposite." The glass lands on the desk with a thud. "We're not at headquarters anymore," Milni drawls, as he swings himself into his seat.

Curt shrugs. Pushes away the proffered glass. "Still." He forces a smile to his face, slipping uneasily into the persona. Owen would have been better at this, he thinks. He exhales, and jerks his head towards the door. "How did that black magic work?"

"Ha." Milni fingers his glass. "Not as well as I'd like."

Curt's surprise is genuine. "We learned information on an MI5 initiation procedure. That alone is valuable-"

Milni waves it away. "Yes, yes. After a lot of work. Too much, for such little information." He drains the glass, and grimaces. "Da. It is no matter; on the second round, he will be softened to it  
Weaker."

Curt folds his hands in his lap so Milni can't see them shaking. "Moscow will be impressed," he says, with a smile he doesn't feel. The words bounce round in his skull. An MI5 Initiation Procedure. "You've found a way to read the enemy like a book."

"Not a book, Mr Vielnetov. A video."

"Video," he repeats. "You record the session?"

Milni nods, then downs Curt's rejected glass. "I hate waste," he says, as he slams it on the table with a grimace.

Curt exhales. "I can see that." He settles in his chair slightly.

Milni gives a sad chuckle. "It was never meant for interrogation," he explains, quietly. "I wish you could have seen it before. With a willing subject, it can be quite... beautiful."

"A willing subject?" Curt asks, unsure of the relevancy. Still, as long as Milni is eager to talk; he should take advantage of it.

"Myself. My parents. Anyone with stories to share," he says, with a faraway look in his eyes. "We focused on moments of historical intrigue; our memories of the war. We lost so much. I wanted to give something back.

Curt sits up. "You wanted to... Preserve their memories?"

Milni nods. "Moscow thought it had other potential," he says, bitterly.

Curt gives him a dangerous look, and straightens up in his chair. "Well, we provide you with test subjects," he says. "It's the fastest way to perfect your machines."

"Perfect? Again, you misunderstand. The machine already works perfectly; as well as it can. It is the human mind which is sporadic, unreasoned."

"How so?"

He waves a hand. "Like a maze. You saw what it was like with your Brit. Granted, he was deliberately resisting, but it can be difficult for any subject to remain focused. Even with myself, I admit, it was... Strange. Like being in a trance, no matter what my intentions. I suppose it is the great human weakness," he says, eyes glassy with imaginings and alcohol. "Have you ever tried to write your memoirs, Mr Vielnetov?"

Curt smiles easily. "I can't say I have. I doubt my personal history is as varied as yours."

Milni laughs. "You flatter me. However, they are comparable. Telling a story and sitting in the machine are much different to simply remember

"The observer effect," Curt says. Milni nods. "If that's true, Papvitch; you're a more skilled interrogator than my superiors have given you credit for."

Milni inclines his head once more.

Emboldened by this new information, Curt prepares to stand. He doesn't want to push his luck, after all. "Allow me to talk with my prisoner," he says.

"He's in no position to be interrogated," Milni says, with some surprise. Curt pauses, and tries temper his own facial expression.

"I'm aware. But there are other ways I can make myself useful. Soften him up for you," he leers.

"If you must," Milni says, with a resigned sort of sigh. He seems almost... Disappointed.

Curt stands, and gives him one last nod as he leaves the room.

*

Owen lies on the bench, deadly still, and faces the wall. For a moment, Curt thinks he might be sleeping, until he stirs slightly, and lets out a soft groan.

"You shouldn't be here," he murmurs, in English, without turning.

"I have every right to question our prisoner," Curt barks, in Russian. "Unless... you were expecting someone?"

Owen rolls over at that, and exhales slightly when he sees Curt. He switches to Russian. "I inferred much from your footsteps, pig," he spits, but there's a twinkle in his eye.

Curt bares his teeth, glances up and down the corridor. "You're going to regret that." With that, he steps inside the cell, and gestures to the lack of cameras in the cell; something which he'd double checked before leaving Milni's office. "No one can see us," he murmurs, in English. He swings the gate closed. "Scream."

Owen extends a hand, head cocked, and offers him a tiny smile. "Make me."

Curt purses his lips, and crosses the distance between them. "I'm surprised you're still awake," he says. He kneels down beside him, and takes his hand.

"Can't." His eyes search his, try, desperately, to convey something, and then he stills. He squeezes Curt's hand, and curls in on himself again. "You should go."

"Not until I'm sure you're alright."

Owen takes a deep breath. For a moment, everything is deadly silent. Then, he closes his eyes and screams, gutturally, clenching his hand around Curt's. He tenses. For a moment, he thinks that might be it, until Owen presses his knees together, and screams, and screams, and screams.

Curt winces, but strokes Owen's hand, smoothing away the pain and discomfort of the day, and places another hand on his temple. Owen's eyes snap open, and the scream fades.

Owen falters, and looks up at him. He takes a shaky breath. "Convincing?

Genuine.

Curt gives him a sad smile. "Very." He strokes his hair.

"Mm." He leans into the touch, and attempts to inject some hardness into his voice. "You're endangering the mission."

His hand stills. "Do you want me to stop?"

"I don't. But you must."

Curt closes his eyes for a moment, indulging in the temporary closeness, and thinks about all the things he wants to say. He squeezes his hand one final time, and looks down at him. "Owen-"

"Go."

His thoughts must read on his face, because Owen pulls him into a brief kiss, and drops his hand. "If we survive this, we'll discuss it," he whispers. Then, without waiting for Curt to leave, he turns back round to face the wall.

"When we survive this," Curt assures them, and turns to leave the cell.


End file.
